


make me confused, mock me with praise

by brampersandon



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, that's it really it's just banter and blowies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: "It's a public place, Jaskier," he says. "Anyone could see.""First of all, as you've noted several times over the course of our journey, your only company for days has been me. You would prefer it to be no one at all, but all the same— only me. You're welcome, by the way. Have you heard what they say about gift horses and their mouths? Never mind, there's another mouth you'll soon becomeverywell-acquainted with."The face Geralt makes when he looks like he wishes one or both of them could die on the spot is devastatingly handsome.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 66
Kudos: 507
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	make me confused, mock me with praise

**Author's Note:**

> in this house we ignore: heterosexuality, plot, and honestly most of the canon!
> 
> set ambiguously some time between calanthe's house party and djinngate. title comes from _being alive_ from company, because an obnoxious bard is the perfect excuse for a musical theatre title.

"Honestly, Geralt, sometimes I feel as if I'm in an entirely different show."

Geralt doesn't deign to look at him when he asks, "Show?" Really, it's more of a statement, not a question, so, rephrase that— "Show." As if it's the most ridiculous thing he's heard in his life when _he's_ the one parading around insisting dragons are real.

But of course that's his question. "Show, yes, show!" Jaskier gestures expansively, and his voice takes on a wisened, world-weary lilt as he rambles. "All life's a show, and I'll have you know that if we're to be measured by anything after we die, it'll be how well we put on said show. Costumes? Check." He fluffs up the jaunty oxblood ascot around his own neck, then reaches out to pat down Geralt's very manly leather doublet. "Setting? Check." Ah, the lush greenery and babbling brook that surely disguise some new and awful monster that'll try to rip his throat out. "Musical accompaniment?" He strums an impressive four chords on his lute. "Check. At any given time, on any given day, in any given place, we're all putting on our own shows. It's the human slash witcher slash elf slash dwarf slash goat-man et cetera et cetera condition. To live is to perform. _You_ certainly give quite the performance every time you dance with that impressively long sword of yours." Geralt grunts. "Although your line reads could use a little work."

"There's no one around." Four words strung together at once, remarkable! But Jaskier doesn't quite catch the meaning of that thrilling statement, so he motions for him to go on. 

And for once, Geralt does. "No audience."

He'll mark it down in his journal later: Today, in the year of all their various lords 1249, on an otherwise unremarkable evening, in the most remote reaches of Some Mildly Threatening Forest Or Another, Who Can Really Be Arsed To Remember Which One Anymore, Geralt of Rivia actually played along with one of his tangents.

"Dress rehearsal," Jaskier says without missing a beat, infuriatingly smug. "Look at that! We've just shared a little joke. Ah, don't deny it, you permitted yourself one — count it, one! — twitch of the lips, in a generally upward, mirthful direction. I saw it! At this rate, I'll have you laughing yourself to stitches in… five years? Ten?"

"I wouldn't push your luck if I were you, bard."

"Fortunately for all, you're not." Jaskier can't ignore the warmth spreading through his chest at this shift he sees in Geralt. No less acerbic, of course not, that's all part of his broody charm — but he thinks he spies some shreds of fondness in those barbs. Could he be imagining it? Well, sure. There's always that possibility. But Geralt's growing to trust him, he can tell, even as he insists he doesn't need him, and that carries more weight to it than most anything else. Plus, Jaskier notes, at any point after they left Cintra, Geralt could have simply abandoned him. It would be as simple as losing him in a crowded marketplace or walking away while he sleeps. But he hasn't. And Jaskier's beginning to think that perhaps he won't.

The little fire they sit in front of smolders. Best not to let it die out, he thinks. Best to fan the flames while they still live, however brief.

He lets Geralt enjoy a period of blessed silence, only the crackling of the fire and the breeze through the leaves to provide the score. He busies himself with re-stringing his lute while Geralt feeds Roach and sharpens his sword. When he returns to the fire, he sits closer than before. And then, when the sun threatens to dip below the horizon entirely, Jaskier slopes their shoulders together as he leans in to say, "I actually think you quite fancy me."

Consider the flames appropriately fanned, because Geralt's neck practically snaps as he turns to look at him, brows furrowed and lip curled. " _What?_ "

"Well, clearly you hadn't caught on yet, so I thought I'd help it along." Jaskier sighs deeply and sweeps his hand in a grand motion between them. "Loath as you are to admit it, Geralt, you're clearly taken with me. Who could blame you? I ooze charisma, uniqueness, nerve, talent—"

"I do not like you," Geralt spits.

"Ah, so you dislike me?"

"No. I did not say that."

"So I was, in fact, correct. You _do_ like me." He swings an arm around Geralt's shoulder only to be immediately shrugged off. "What with the tragedies of a witcher's life, I can imagine you've got a healthy fear of rejection. Do you hesitate because you assume you'll be rebuked?" Jaskier crosses both hands over his own heart, the picture of pure sincerity. "Because I assure you, I'd need to be kicked in the head several times to do something as mad as that."

It doesn't feel like much of an admission — to Jaskier, this is all plainly obvious — but it hangs heavy between them all the same. Geralt processes it slowly, then shakes his head. He laughs — well, snorts really, but he'd like to think it's a fond, amused sort of snort — and leans back on his elbows in the grass. "You _are_ mad. Stop spouting off nonsense."

But Geralt didn't say he was wrong. He also hasn't moved away.

Not to be deterred, Jaskier plucks up all his courage and moves as swiftly as he can to turn and swing a leg over Geralt's side. Just like that, he's straddling him on a forest floor, and Geralt looks— significantly less angry than Jaskier assumed he would. If anything, he's shocked, his golden eyes blown wide open. He doesn't move an inch, stock still but for the tension building in his jaw.

"What are you doing?" he finally asks, slowly enough to emphasize each word.

"Proving a point." Jaskier doesn't move either, though his hands twitch at his sides, restless to touch when he's got Geralt laid out beneath him like this. "Do you hate this? Ah! Be honest! It'll be easy to tell if you're lying."

Witchers can't blush, he knows that, but he likes to think that if they could, he'd be seeing color on Geralt's cheeks. "I don't hate it," he confirms. 

A boyish grin spreads across his face. That's practically a love confession in Jaskier's book. "Would you go so far as to say that you enjoy it? Well, inasmuch as witchers can enjoy anything."

Geralt doesn't answer, but the choked off sound he makes when Jaskier rolls his hips says enough. It's strange; even in Jaskier's vaguest fantasies, Geralt would've flipped him onto his back and taken over by now. But here he is, caged in by Jaskier and making no moves to change that. 

Curious, he presses one hand to Geralt's chest and leans his weight onto it. Under no circumstances would he be able to overpower Geralt, not even in something as simple as this. To go along with it, Geralt would have to go willingly. And he does— slowly, but he does, his back coming to rest against the ground. His own hands lay awkwardly on either side of him, as if he's not quite sure where else they'd go. The answer, of course, is on his quite-impressive-for-a-bard- _thank-you_ thighs or perhaps even his arse, but they'll get there. For now, Jaskier only fiddles with the ties at the front of Geralt's vest.

He's managed to get it half-open before Geralt finally speaks. "Mark me, Jaskier, if you're doing this for one of your epic poems—"

"What?" Jaskier scoffs. The vest falls the rest of the way open. "Absolutely not. You've already given me about eight folios worth of material, I don't need to sleep with you to write a good song." He splays his fingers wide across Geralt's chest experimentally, watching for any minute effect it has on him. No luck, he still looks dubious at best. Jaskier will prattle on about a lot of horseshit, but the last thing he wants is for his intentions to be unclear. He runs his fingers in light circles over Geralt's chest and asks, a shade more serious than before, "Is it really so hard to believe I'd be interested purely for the sake of being interested? I mean, good god, look at you. Your muscles have got muscles."

Geralt only grunts at that. But he's breathing the slightest bit quicker under Jaskier's touch. Duly noted.

"Of course, part of my interest _does_ involve you doing more than lying here like a corpse," he tacks on. "You've got all of this prime real estate right in front of you, you're more than welcome to touch. Or do you really need me to show you where?"

He rolls his eyes. "No. You don't need to show me." Still, his hands falter for a moment before resting atop Jaskier's thighs, and— that's precisely all they do. Rest there. They don't grip, they don't grab, they don't grope, they don't do any of those delicious gr-words that Jaskier very much wishes they'd do.

A thought comes to him, as sudden as a stroke of inspiration for a new lyric, and it spills out of his mouth before he has time to consider it or tamp down the obvious glee rising in his voice: "Have you done this before?"

"What? Yes," Geralt answers, _far_ too quickly.

Jaskier squints. "You're older than a witch's balls. How long ago was it? Long enough that… perhaps you've forgotten?"

"Shut your mouth, Jaskier," he snarls, and his fingers dig indents into his thighs before he runs them up to take hold of his hips. And that's good, that's very very good, Jaskier's about to tell him he can grab him harder, but then— nothing again. No further action.

"Geralt. I cannot stress how important this is, and I need you to answer me sincerely when I ask you." He leans down, close enough for his fringe to brush Geralt's forehead as he asks, "When was the last time you got laid?"

"Unlike a bard, I've had many more important things to do than trawl the countryside for a warm bed day in and day out," Geralt says, which is quite a lot of words all at once for him, but it certainly isn't an answer.

"Yes, well, I imagine your very busy life of swordplay and blood and guts and studiously avoiding all manner of cordial relationships hasn't left much time for carnal pleasures, but!" Geralt makes a low noise of disgust in his throat and starts to shift beneath him, so Jaskier presses both palms firmer against his chest to keep him there. " _But._ Seriously, I'm asking as your friend. How long has it been? Personally, I can't imagine going more than a week. You've got to be aching for release."

To that, Geralt still has no answer. They only stare at each other for a long moment before Geralt yanks him the rest of the way down and presses his mouth, hot and hungry, over Jaskier's. _This_ , at least, he knows how to do. Small blessings.

For a few glorious moments, he loses himself in it entirely, the feel of Geralt's hand against the back of his neck, the deceptively soft slide of his lips, the too-hot area where Jaskier balances against him and their arousals meet. And then it hits, all at once — _he's kissing the daylights out of Geralt of fucking Rivia_ — and laughter starts to bubble up. He has to break away, laughing too hard to go on.

"Jaskier," Geralt says in a low warning tone that he absolutely should not find as sexy as he does, but he does. "What's so funny."

"Sorry, sorry," he says. He tucks his face in the curve of Geralt's neck and darts his tongue out, nipping across his throat to make up for it. But he never stops talking. "Just the grand absurdity of it all, really, of finding you in a pub and winding up here, and how I'm going to have to add a verse or two about the Witcher's pillowy lips—"

And just like that, Geralt's learned the most important lesson of all. If he truly wants Jaskier to shut up, he needs to occupy his mouth somehow — though even that's no guarantee. But it works now, Geralt's hand curved under his jaw to keep him in place, his lower lip between Geralt's teeth. He wouldn't talk even if he wanted to — and he very much doesn't want to, only perhaps to utter an expletive or two, because he'd much prefer to do this for the next few hours. Days, even. Fuck food and shelter and water. Let the sun rise and fall and rise again, he'll still be here.

Jaskier pulls back eventually and looks him in the eye, breathless and grinning. He can't poke fun at Geralt for just how hard he's gotten, just how quickly, because the same's true for him. It'd almost be embarrassing had he been born with the ability to feel shame. "So, you should let me suck you off now," he declares, as if planting his flag on fresh ground. For all he knows, he might be. 

Geralt blinks, the only movement of his otherwise stony face. "Here."

"Here," Jaskier agrees. "Unless you'd like me to bed you properly and book us a room at the nearest inn? Although, that'd require a bit of a trek, and I certainly hope you wouldn't jump on Roach's back in _this_ state." He grinds down against Geralt for emphasis. The joke about refusing to let the horse get a ride from the Witcher before he does is right on the tip of his tongue, but Geralt's so taken aback by the concept of a simple blowjob in the woods, he's not about to push it further for fear of losing out on the opportunity entirely. Jaskier's risks are calculated. He's just awful with maths.

"It's a public place, Jaskier," he says. "Anyone could see."

"First of all, as you've noted several times over the course of our journey, your only company for days has been me. You would prefer it to be no one at all, but all the same— only me. You're welcome, by the way. Have you heard what they say about gift horses and their mouths? Never mind, there's another mouth you'll soon become _very_ well-acquainted with." 

The face Geralt makes when he looks like he wishes one or both of them could die on the spot is devastatingly handsome.

"More to the point, no one's around to see and we both know that. The Witcher doth protest too much. Secondly!" He plants one hand on the grass and leans forward to prop himself up over Geralt, with what he hopes is his most charming, least punchable smile in place. "Even if anyone _were_ around to see, haven't you been listening to what I said about putting on a good show?"

"Fellatio is not equivalent to a performance piece," Geralt sighs.

"Oh, I love it when you talk dirty," Jaskier groans. 

Turns out, his most charming smile is quite punchable after all. He'll workshop it later.

Well, it's less of a punch, more of a very strong shove, but still. It's his money-maker. He can't have it bloodied up any more than it's already been since he took up his position as the Butcher of Blaviken's personal bard. Although, the bar maidens the last town over did think it was quite fetching, turns out some folks are into the beaten and bruised look, perhaps that explains Geralt's appeal more than the rippling muscles do— 

And he's so busy running off at the mouth about just that, he nearly misses it when Geralt says, "We've a tent."

A beat.

"So, a closed-door dress rehearsal after all."

"One more word out of you and I'll change my mind, and you'll be left to tend to yourself."

 _Absurdly hot_ , Jaskier thinks, _And I'd relish the opportunity to put on a one-man show for you_ , but he keeps it firmly trapped under his tongue because he's not about to give up on his quest for cock. At least for the moment, that's more important than his hilarious jokes.

Geralt stamps out the fire before joining him in the tent, dimly lantern-lit and hardly spacious enough for the two of them on a good night. It's economical, really, sharing one bed roll and being on top of one another. Jaskier's not sure why they didn't think to do that earlier. Or, well, _he'd_ thought about it plenty of times, but he certainly never thought they'd really act on it.

Geralt pauses after shedding his vest and undershirt, looks over his shoulder at Jaskier. "You're going to remain clothed?"

"Well, no," Jaskier says, though he still is. "As much fun as it would be to turn our backs to one another and strip in silence, I was hoping to have a more active role in it." Geralt only stares at him, so Jaskier heaves a great sigh and waves his hand to beckon him closer and sits up on his knees to unfasten Geralt's belt. "And then you'll do the same for me, obviously," he goes on as he tugs his trousers down, "And it won't be unlike unwrapping a lovely surprise gift, and you'll be quite stunned by my manly physique, which you'd never once expected me to possess, and you'll be overcome by lust and very impressed and oh sweet merciful _fuck_ , Geralt."

"What," Geralt intones, as if he isn't now fully naked in front of Jaskier with an absolutely monstrous cock. He seems entirely nonplussed by this, and at a loss for why Jaskier could possibly be staring up at him with his mouth hung open.

He points. "Was it this big before you got be-witchered?"

"Stop talking."

"That's an honest question!"

"I said stop." Geralt bats his hand away and moves to lie down again. "You've seen me in this state before."

"I've seen you naked, yes," Jaskier agrees as he chucks his plan of having Geralt undress him out the window and fumbles about to rip his own clothes off as quickly as possible, "But I was a sight more concerned with tending to your wounds at that time, and I can assure you that what I saw was not in _this_ particular state." He's too impatient to undo all the haute couture fastenings on his trousers, he'll deal with that later, he'd much rather worm his way between Geralt's legs and get on with the show.

He drops his head to kiss the hard muscle of Geralt's stomach, practically sweet and innocent as he asks, "May I go on?"

No answer. When he looks up, there's something else in Geralt's gaze now that he hasn't seen before. Something— a little softer, maybe. Like he's looked at Jaskier and for the first time, been pleased with what he's seen. It actually makes him feel a bit flustered, which is new, but then he watches Geralt swallow hard and nod, and that's all the encouragement he needs. 

He flattens his tongue against the underside of his cock and gives it a long, slow lick from root to tip, trying to get the lay of the land. It is a very large, very thick land indeed. He'll have to modify his usual techniques to accommodate it. Stil, Geralt seems to like something as simple as this far more than Jaskier thought he would — both of his hands land on Jaskier's shoulders and scramble to find purchase as he strokes him slowly and rubs his lips over the head.

"Really, they never tell of this in all the tall tales of the witchers that walk this earth," he murmurs as he continues to run his mouth and his hand over him in tandem. "Have they killed every nasty creature that could ever pose harm? Yes. Can they do fun and deadly little magic tricks? Sure. Do they protect the innocent despite their steely exterior? Certainly. But does anyone ever sing the praises of their girthy manhood and all its infinite pleasures? Not that I've ever heard, and not only do I find that a damn shame, but I'm committed to righting that wrong."

"How are you still _talking_ ," Geralt grits out from between his teeth.

"It's a gift." In the same breath, Jaskier somehow manages to wrap his tongue around the head of Geralt's cock in the most obscene fashion. "I can sing too, if you'd like—"

Perhaps shockingly, Geralt would _not_ like. Jaskier feels deft fingers card through his hair before one huge, strong hand pushes down, and just like that, he's taken nearly the whole of Geralt of Rivia into his mouth. 

Oh, he bets Valdo Marx has never even come close to something as great as this in all his miserable, talentless life.

It takes a moment to readjust — leave it to Geralt to rush him through the grand and glorious overture before he's ready — but once Jaskier has his bearings again, he measures his breaths through his nose and bobs his head, trying each time to take more. He hums, content as a cat on a sun-warmed roof, then irresponsibly pleased with himself for the way it makes Geralt full-body shiver. _I've done that_ , he thinks and hums again to make him shake harder still. _I've made Geralt feel that._ Clearly he's not one to praise him for his good work, but that's alright, Jaskier can provide the running monologue in his own head. 

Just as he's set a nice rhythm for himself, he feels Geralt's thighs twitching beneath his hands, the grip in his hair tightening. His breath's coming shorter, and just as Jaskier's about to pull off and really tease him before he works him back up again, he spills suddenly down his throat with a strangled moan.

By Jaskier's count, that took all of two minutes, _maybe_ three.

He swallows as best he can but splutters a little as he pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry," Geralt mumbles— mumbles? Jaskier's eyes lift and he sees the man actually has his other arm thrown over his face, like a freshly deflowered farm boy. How unfairly endearing. How _hysterically_ incongruous with everything else about him.

"Don't be, I take it as a compliment." He reaches up to pull Geralt's arm away and meet his eyes. "However, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't witchers supposed to have enhanced stamina? You might want to get a refund on that one, I think they bollocksed it up for you." Except, lo and behold, when he goes to give Geralt's cock a not at all condescending pat, he finds it's not quite as spent as it was mere moments ago. Jaskier's face lights up. "My deepest apologies, I seem to have misspoken. Rather, they shorted you on _endurance_ , but apparently not stamina," he chirps, "Because it certainly looks like you could go again, couldn't you? Oh, Geralt, we're going to have _so much_ fun with that one—"

Geralt's still breathing ragged, doesn't even have the energy to tell him to shut up. He only slaps his hand lightly against Jaskier's cheek — which, well, Jaskier likes _that_ far too much — but then it stays there, his thumb moving minutely over his cheekbone, almost gentle. Almost fond.

For the moment, words fail.

**Author's Note:**

> \- geralt is a virgin you cannot convince me otherwise (caitlin he fucks multiple times in the show) anyway like i said, geralt is a virgin and you CANNOT convince me otherwise
> 
> \- thanks for reading! you can find me on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) where i occasionally yell about this dumb fun show.


End file.
